Into the Night

    I get asked all the time how I craft the deep, powerful characters (both primary and secondary) that litter the pages of my books.  Truth is, I believe that every character ever created has the potential to be as deep and intricate as you or I.  It’s about putting the right character(s) in the right situation, at the right time.

    How do you do that?  *smiles* It works a lot like casting a movie.  Start a file (either paper or on your computer) that contains nothing but characters.  Whenever you have an idea for a character trait or a certain type of character, or a name and age, or whatever, plop it into your character file.  About once a month, go back through the file.  Does anyone spark any creative thoughts?  If so, add to the character until the creative spark runs out (don’t force yourself to keep creating when you no longer feel inspired… that only makes flat, insipid characters).  Then tuck that character back into the file, satisfied to know you’ve gotten to know him/her a little bit better.

    Have an idea for a plot, and ready to write?  Now’s the time to decide what type of character you need.  Need a beautician with a creative streak, who makes funky hairdos all day long?  Go into your character file.  Maybe there’s someone in there who has green and pink, spiked hair and a flair for the unusual…. If so, he or she might be perfect for your avant-garde hairdresser.  And don’t be afraid to play around with gender types, either.  Maybe your hairdresser will end up a guy, and the straight-laced business person whose life he turns upside down with a funky hairstyle will be that uptight blonde woman in the power suit.  The roles are limitless, when you take a step outside the “norm” of thinking.

    Now that you’ve dug through your character file and selected two characters, screen test them in the role.   Write a scene between them, perhaps over the atrocious green dye-job he gave her… Do they seem stiff and awkward in the roles, or do they flow naturally into them?  If the former, then you’ve found your leads.  If the latter is true, however, go back to the character file and dig some more.  Remember, at this point you’re like a Hollywood Casting Director.  You have to find the pair that has the best “screen” chemistry.  Don’t get your heart set on one character, if he or she doesn’t work in the plot.

   Once you’ve had a successful screen test, it’s time to interview your characters.  Find out what’s going on behind the blue-green hair, the power red business suit.  Is there a secret life there?  A fantasy desire?  A psychological quirk?  Does she keep her house white-glove inspection ready?  Does he drive a funky, rainbow colored VW?  If so, these add dimensions to the characters, and provide them with still more story to work in… And what happens if he turns out to be an undercover agent, sent to protect her without her knowledge?  What if she turns out to have a softer side that prompts her to devote hours of her time to a local rescue shelter for abused animals?  These are the things you find out in interviewing your characters.  Sometimes, even if there’s chemistry, however, the interviews make it clear the characters aren’t going to work well together.  Say he’s got a problem with alcohol, and she’s a prohibitionist who’s going to end up preaching at him all the time about the evils of alcohol.  Well, maybe they’ll work it out, and he’ll get clean.  But chances are better he’s going to tune her out, get angry, and walk away before he even gets a chance to get to know her.  These are the kinds of questions you need to ask.

    Once the interviews are done, and you’re satisfied you’ve chosen the right two leads for your story, it’s time to go back to the file, keeping them in mind, and search out villains (if you need one) and secondary characters.  The process is going to work much the same, though you’re looking for a different kind of chemistry, in these cases.

Sounds dishy, right?  Wrong.

Today, I’m going to discuss getting inside a character’s head.  It’s one of the things I do well (probably because I spend so much time taking peeks inside real people’s heads).  It’s something a fiction author must do well.  Depending on the kind of fiction you’re writing, it can be essential to the entire story.

I’ve heard a lot about the distinction between a story being character-driven and plot-driven.  The truth is, I’ve seen very few places where one hasn’t been immediately essential to the other. 

Think about it.  If Character A (we’ll call him John) is stuck dangling five stories above the ground, that’s part of the plot.  But what makes this position INTERESTING is that John is afraid of heights.  So, how does he get out?  Does he freeze up?  Will he talk himself into overcoming his fear at least long enough to get back inside the building?  And his struggle to get back inside will either be fraught with his emotional rollercoaster, or complete and total numbness, with the emotions sinking in only once he’s climbed in off the window.

Or take situation #2:  John’s put himself out on that ledge, intending to jump.  Problem is, he didn’t know until this moment just how intense his fear of heights is.  He wants to die, but he’s afraid to let go of the window frame.  Now there’s another paradox to deal with. 

In both cases, the immediate plot is important to moving the story forward (John has to either survive, or become a splat on the pavement, and depending on the importance of the character, the writer determines which plot device moves the story along more efficiently.  Neither outcome is outside of the realm of possibility.), however, without the character’s reaction, the reader is sitting on the sidelines shrugging and muttering “Who cares?”

But once the reader’s allowed access to John’s thoughts and feelings, suddenly it MATTERS what happens to him.  And we’re right there, holding our breath and praying for him, wishing we could reach out and help him back into the room.  And our sense of relief when he makes it back inside (whether defying the odds of a terrible accident, or making the choice to continue living) keeps us reading, to find out what happens to him next.  We CARE about John.  Thus, his character becomes essential to the story moving along, as well.

But how does the author get inside John’s head?  *grins* At risk of sounding corny - practice!  I always advise writers who are just starting out that, before they sit down and plot their first book, they do some characterization exercises.  These are really simple to do:

1. Pick a character.  Determine name, sex, age, and jot down a few basic notes about background.  This doesn’t have to be anything fancy or indepth, though some of my early characterization exercises have become wonderful characters, in time.

2. Pick a situation.  It doesn’t have to be life-threatening, although understanding how a person reacts under extreme stress can make understanding them in day-to-day situations much easier.

3. Have a character and situation written down?  Great.  Now, ask yourself one simple question:  Based on what you know about this person, at this moment, how would they react?

Here’s an example:

1. John.  Male, 30, fear of heights and fire, loves his family intensely, was a pilot until he suffered a bad crash in a small plane and lost his brother.

2.  Situation:  John’s trapped on the roof of a burning building with his six-year-old niece, whom he’s only just found.

3.  How does he react?:

                  The sweat stood out on his skin, and he knew it had nothing to do with the flames licking beneath him, as Amy’s small arms trembled around his neck.  This sweat was cold, and his knees shook with the effort to remain upright as he looked down at the ground, some twenty feet below him.  His stomach lurched.  No way could he make that jump.

    “I’m scared.”  Amy’s small voice wavered against his ear, and John’s heart seized.  She was six, and the only piece of Pete left in this world.  He couldn’t fail her.

     Again, the heat of burning jet fuel singed him, and he heard Pete’s scream, and then that terrible silence.  Flames crackled around his booted feet, and he smelled the oily burn of rubber.

    “Shit.” He swore, and didn’t need to look down to know the roof was now on fire.  He was out of choices, here.  If he didn’t jump, he was condemning Pete’s daughter to die the same way her father did - burned to death because of John’s fear.  He looked toward the ground, where firefighters set up a huge net.  He was out of time.  John heaved a deep breath, squeezed his eyes closed, and flung them both out into the fire-lit night.

See how the step inside works?  You know something about him, and you see the world, and the danger, through his eyes.  His love for his family, and his guilt over his brother’s death, are both stronger than his fear of heights and fire combined.  When pressed to act, he does, but you can feel his fear through it all.  And that human factor is what makes the plot so much more gripping.